He had expected the German to go down. The man only staggered back, as if Cole had punched him instead of shot him.
Tough bastard, Cole thought. But something didn’t add up. He put the crosshairs on the German's torso again. By now, the man was moving and the shot wasn't as dead center, but still on target. No time to get fancy. He pulled the trigger.
Again, the German sniper staggered. But he didn't go down.
What the hell?
He had shot the man twice but had failed to take him down. Then he saw the German's rifle coming up.
Run, the critter inside him howled.
Cole turned and high-tailed it down the trail.
He felt like he had a big old X painted between his shoulder blades, but he dodged and weaved as best he could, juking left and right. He would’ve put a jackrabbit to shame. Behind him, the German fired and Cole actually felt the supersonic crack of the bullet go past his ear. The sound sent fresh shivers down his spine and made his legs feel slightly rubbery. Cole ran until his lungs burned.
The deer and pigs had made a winding trail that prevented a clear line of sight. He went around a bend and wasn't such a target anymore. Cole kept running, in part because he was just plain spooked. How in the hell had the German sniper gotten the drop on him like that?
If Cole had stayed on the trail initially, instead of slipping off into the woods as a precaution, he would have walked right into the Jerry's sights. The German would have drilled him.
More worrisome was the fact that he had put two shots on the German without apparent effect. What the hell was going on here?
He saw the log ahead where he had set his trap and leaped over it. With any luck, it would slow down or stop the German. He kept going and ran full tilt into the clearing where the massacre had taken place. He caught a glimpse of the bodies and hoped to hell that he wasn't about to join them anytime soon. The sight was also like salt in the wound. He had gone after the Germans intending to exact a pound of flesh, and now here he was running for his life. So much for being an avenging angel.
Behind him, he heard the blast of the grenade. The Jerry had run right through the tripwire. But had the grenade killed the German or merely wounded him? If the Jerry had been moving as fast as Cole, there was a chance that he had actually run through the kill zone by the time that the grenade detonated.
American grenades killed with shrapnel while the German version relied on a deadly shockwave. Close was usually good enough with any grenade, but how lucky was the German? Was he dead?
Cole wanted to make sure.
At the far end of the clearing, Cole fell to one knee and worked a fresh round into the chamber.
A split second later, the German sniper came rushing into the clearing. He was dragging one leg, so the booby trap had done some damage, but he was still on his feet.
With his hammering heart and unsteady stance, Cole didn't trust himself to try for a headshot at a running target. He aimed again at the torso. Cole fired.
The German grunted and spun halfway around from the impact of the bullet, but he didn't go down. His rifle was coming up, up—
Cole didn’t stick around to get shot. He plunged into the woods and ran downhill. The German fired and Cole could hear the bullet bouncing among the trees. He rushed pell-mell through the woods, roots trying to trip him, branches snapping at his face and briers snagging at his clothes, but he didn't slow down.
At the bottom of the ridge ran the same stream that had created a moat between him and the German camp. The stream was probably a tributary of the Moselle. The water was muddy from the recent rain and swift moving. Couldn't be more than a couple of feet deep and not more than ten feet wide, but too much to leap across. From the crashing sounds behind him, it was clear that the German was pursuing him — none too gracefully. In the distance, he heard the swell of small arms fire. The attack on the village had already begun. They would need every rifle to defend Ville sur Moselle. Right about now, General Tolliver was likely wondering where the hell Cole was.
Gettin' my ass kicked, Cole thought.
He could still hear the sniper running through the woods behind him. That leg wound, and maybe that last bullet, had slowed him down, but the son of a bitch was still coming.
Turn and fight, said the critter, feeling cornered, eager to bare its teeth.
But Cole wasn't just critter. Another, more calculating part of him existed. He did plan to fight, because there really wasn't any other option, but he had just two or three bullets left in the stripper clip. He had already put not one, not two, but three bullets on this guy, but hadn't managed to stop him yet. Cole knew that he'd hit him, but he hadn't put him down — not yet. He needed the German to stand still long enough for Cole to line up the crosshairs on him one more time.
He didn't have time for anything complicated. He pulled a dollar bill out of his pocket and dropped it on the bank of the creek. In the drab gray and brown of the natural world, the paper money stood out sharply.
Then Cole quickly moved back up the hill, in a slightly different direction from the one that he'd come down. By the time that the Jerry reached the creek, Cole was snuggled into the underbrush, a hundred feet away.
He slid the rifle through a fork in a small tree to hold it steady. Worked the bolt. He had one more bullet after this one. Otherwise, he'd be down to his knife. He knew that the German wasn’t going to take him prisoner — and Cole wasn’t about to let him.
He put his eye to the scope and looked back at the creek. His field of vision was crisscrossed by all sort of twigs and branches. The ones up close looked big and blurry. In fact, his field of view was such a mess that he could barely see the fine black reticule against that backdrop. This was going to be tricky.
Then the German appeared. He wore a poncho, which made it impossible to tell how or why the German was bulletproof. For the first time, Cole got a good look at his face. The heavy, brutal visage reminded him of a foreman on a coal mining crew back home. He had big shoulders and a thick neck. Cole wasn’t afraid of anybody, but he sure as hell wouldn't be eager to tangle with him one on one. The German was breathing heavily from the effort of running down through the woods.
Cole tried to get a clear shot, but all he could see was that web of branches. All it would take was one tiny twig to deflect the bullet. The man was looking this way and that. In another second, he'd be moving again and Cole would miss his chance.
The man disappeared from the sight picture. Cole realized that he must have bent over to pick up the money. Next to the helmet on a stick, using a lure of some sort was the oldest trick in the book, but he’d fallen for it. The sniper's head and face reappeared in the scope.
At this range, the bullet would be a little low from where Cole put the crosshairs. He thought about a headshot, and just as quickly, ruled it out. With two bullets left, he didn’t want to take that chance.
He aimed at the German's chest, but the target was obscured by the branches of the dense underbrush. He held his breath and waited. For an instant, Cole's crosshairs found the tiniest gap through the branches. He squeezed the trigger.
Cole worked the bolt, then heard a splash as the German went into the water.
One bullet left. He hoped to hell he wouldn't need it. So far, this bastard had been awfully tough to kill.
He couldn't see a goddamn thing through the scope because of the blur of intertwined branches, so he moved his head away from the scope, leaving the rifle pressed to his shoulder. Still nothing. He braced himself for any return fire from the German.